


The Gig

by Alliswell



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Homeless!Peeta, Mentions of Cato, Outtakes, Punk!Johanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliswell/pseuds/Alliswell
Summary: Third outtake on the Universe of 'Are Those for Me?' By BellaGracie.Longer than my other outtakes, cannot be considered a drabble, but a one shot. We find out a little about Peeta's past, and the root to his homelessness. We also see what how he got "the gig" that paid him so much cash.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BellaGracie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaGracie/gifts).



> Nothing is mine! 
> 
> Unbetaed.

 

I grew up working in my parents bakery, back in Seattle. Since a very young age, the notion that I had to earn every morsel I ate, or the clothes I wore, even the bed I slept in and the toys I played with, was instilled in me to the point, that the belief I didn't deserved anything I didn't work hard and rigorously for, had been branded into my skull and on the back of my eyelids. Nothing was handed to me just because I was a good boy, well behaved, or loved... because even affection had to be earn in my family.

My family wasn't hurting for food, let alone financially; it was just my mother's warped sense of making her children appreciate their privileged position, not taking their wealth for granted, because our family hadn't always been well off... I can still hear her go-to phrase: "Money don't grow on trees, you want something, then get your hands dirty!".

Both my parents had to worked their asses off to get the bakery from my great grandparents, we Mellarks have been in the business for five generations, and as the family expanded, the business branched out. New stores were opened here and there, since it's logistically impossible to have ten different families working in one single shop. Some of the branches were more prosperous than others, ran more efficiently than others, some of the bakers were definitely more accomplished than others, and depending on the economy of the time, franchises started to close down, until only three bakeries stayed standing. My parents fought tooth and nail for the original Mellark's bakery. They had to sacrifice a lot in order to get trusted to manage it on their own, but they succeeded.

The other two bakeries are still being run by my father's cousins, but my father's shop, is the one everyone knows and visits. We have specialty goods that are specific to the store; those recipes are guarded at a bank vault. I guess after all they went through, to inherit the main bakery, my mother decided it was their right to stay in ownership, so she became obsessed. My brothers are in charge now.

Sometimes I understand my mother's overbearing behavior, some other times I don't. She believed that the only way me and my two older brothers would ever appreciate the legacy they had painstakingly laid out for us, was to make us work our way from the bottom up, same way they did.

I'm not saying a kid should get everything handed to them willy nilly. I support the idea of teaching a child the value and rewards of hard work and a job well done, but with my mother the situation was something bordering on abuse.

You can teach a child to help around the house, and even pay them a symbolic wage for it, but when your family owns the best known bakery in a city like Seattle, and people rather come sit at your shop and drink your coffee or hot chocolate with your signature cheese buns or apple and goat cheese tarts, than the world famous Starbucks or Seattle's Best Coffee, and money comes in like the continuous tide of the sea, then there's no argument that could ever excuse in any way, shape or form, that you feed your family stale bread for dinner on a regular basis, because you think you're teaching a life lesson.

I'm not trying to complain about my messed up upbringing, or the fact that my childhood wasn't the happiest of all. My father was a warm enough man, that we only got to spend quality time with for sporadic flashes of time when we weren't busy working at the bakery. My mother wasn't nearly as warm, she was the disciplinarian; she believed in physical punishment, and she wasn't apologetic about it. I wish I had grown up in a less affluent situation, maybe then, I could've enjoyed a pair of tired, albeit happy parents. I would never know. Maybe mother would've still find fault whatever or economical situation was.

I learned to work hard and not grumble about it, but there's still a reason I signed up into service the first chance I had. I went to college locally, because the family needed me around the business; my future was already written for me, I was to go to school, earn some inconsequential degree to decorate my bakery office walls with, and get back to work with my pipping bag and colorful tubs of frosting.

That was the plan until my father got sick. Cancer. It was a slow process, that picked up speed once it got diagnosed.

He was bedridden for only a few months before he passed away. I will never forget the last conversation we had, before everything went to the crappers. He told me that he never intended to create a slaving environment for any of us. He told me that he worked so hard, so neither of his children had to, ha! Irony it's a bitch. My father was so busy, manning his shop, he was always too tired to stand up to my mother and tell her to lay off for a while, let us enjoy our wealth; he apologized for failing us in that regard, he set out to make a better life for us, but when it really mattered, he was too exhausted to fight for our happiness.

He told me he was proud of me, of my brothers as well, but that we needed to get our own way, that life wasn't restricted to the bakery building, that there was a world out there, begging to be explored.

The day we put him in the ground, I packed up the few treasures I had. I needed to get out of there, before I ended up bitter and verbally abusive, like my older brother, or sad and whipped like my middle brother.

Mother raged at me, called me terrible names, told me I was a deserter, and not even joining the army would ever give me back my honor... Quitters have no honor! The problem is, I really didn't quit, I just followed my father's last advice, his dying wish, so it really doesn't bother me, that when I came back from my second deployment, a broken, damaged man, she only looked at me with disdained and showed me the door, as if I didn't deserve her love or respect, or even being called her son, just because I didn't stay answering to her every beck and call.

My middle brother offered to housed me at his family's place, but the poor fellow married a woman hand-pick by our mother, who is devoured to her inheritance enough to worship the earth mother dearest steps on. I was out on the streets faster than I could sneeze.

Now, you'd never know my family was loaded just by looking at me, not even back in the day, but my work ethic was always legendary even in the corps. These days, people will only see me as a displaced war veteran, without a shack to call home, or a hook to hang my boots at night.

It's a common problem for returning vets too, not that I'm trying to badmouth the great country I've served and sacrifice my sanity for. It's just a mere consequence of the world we live in. But sometimes it's hard to fathom that a guy like me, who served his country with dignity, followed his father's dying wish, wouldn't have a home after being honorably discharged. To be honest, the thought never bothered me as much, until a few weeks back, when Katniss made a backhanded, albeit unintentional, comment about the sketchiness of homeless folk.

Coming from her, the comment felt worse, because the fact that she even speaks to me, has been the best thing that's ever happened to me. I know she worries about me, and in the short time we've known each other, I've come to learn she's been cursed with a terrible case of foot-in-mouth I've ever seen, she's got the worse luck, saying the wrong thing at the most inappropriate, poorly timed, ill advice things I've ever heard, but I know she seldom means any offense, and usually she's more embarrassed and humiliated by her blunders than she lets on. It would be endearing, if it didn't sting so bad sometimes.

I may not have a house to call home, but I still have my work ethic! I also have that pesky warped sense that nothing ever comes free, especially affection from a girl like my princess, so I decided I wanted to show her I can pull my own weight, I didn't need people's charity, I could work and earn my own money. What I hadn't foreseen was that not that many people has confidence in folks like me. I guess destitute people don't exactly inspire faith and reliability, and the few willing to help out, can only offer so much as compensation.

I was a little down, feeling sorry for myself, when I caught a lucky break. I was at this park, finger combing my hair contemplating my very limited options, when this two young ladies approached me. I was weary at first, I might be without a roof over my head, but one thing I have to thank my mother for is the genetics of pleasingly symmetrical features. Without meaning to sound conceited, I've been told many a times, that I'm handsome, and not a week goes by when some sketchy woman and the occasional man, approaches me in misguided attempt at insinuating themselves... It's disgusting, and offensive. Luckily, this wasn't the case with this two.

I caught up to this fact quite quickly as well, the ladies were peculiar, but they had a desperate edge to them, as if they had set out on an scavenger's hunt, and I might hold a clue to their next prize. One of them was quite striking, except, she had too many piercings in her nose and shell of both ears-not personally a fan of the look, but to each their own- half her head was shaved to show the beginning of what I surmise to be a continuos vine, intricately tattooed in shades of green, that covered her scalp, down the side of her neck and shoulder and arm, ending in a twist around her wrist. She was very blunt and to the point, as if she had no time to loose in minutia.

The other girl was as outlandish looking as I suspect she was pretty au natural. She wore layer upon layer of dramatic makeup, her hair was a blonde beehive, but strangely fit her looks. Under all the decorative art, patches of smooth, creamy chocolate skin peaked, glowing warmly. She shoved her name in front of me as she rapidly introduced herself and her companion.

Portia and Cressida were their names, they proceeded to tell me that they currently were into a bit of a pickle. They worked for a prominent photography firm, and their main model walked out on them in the middle of a shoot, throwing an unflattering tantrum.

Apparently, the jerk model, who they called Cato, had gotten handsy with the client that hired them for the picture session, earning a well aimed punch to the nose by the offended patron. Not only the firm was now liable for the unacceptable behavior of the model, but now they had to honor the contract and provide free services in compensation, which they couldn't do without a replacement body.

I must've looked like a deer on headlights; I had no idea how would any of that be my business, until Cressida explained that Cato and I looked to be about the same size, even if I was a bit shorter, but we both had blond hair and blue eyes, and I could easily replace the guy... If I was interested in making a quick buck.

They got my attention right then and there, and after I asked them a few questions of my own, just to clarify what this "gig" they proposed would entailed, I shook their hands, and followed them back to the studio.

"The gig is simple," muttered Portia while studying my face, in the makeup chair, "You'll pose as the handy roadie, while the band gets their photographs taken,"

"Band?" I asked in mild curiosity.

"Yup," she popped her 'P' at the end, dabbing samples of foundation on my cheeks. "It's some pop-rock fusion or something alike. The lead singer is hot, and they have a drummer chick. That's the one Cato tried to get fresh with... I hope she broke his nose." She chuckled, obviously delighted that that pig Cato got his rights deserves. "Mmm... I have to say, Peeta dear, your eyes are a warmer and softer than Cato's. You're also soooo much better behaved that him. I'd be lying if I said I was sorry to see him stomp out of here in one of his tantrums. I hope this the last nail in his coffin and they drop him like a sack of potatoes. He's disgusting" her lips pursed.

She dabbed some more makeup on my face, and then started working on my hair. After a moment, she declared herself done, and called Cressida in for a couple of proof pictures. Satisfied with their results, they took me to meet Cinna, the main photographer for the firm.

While I was walking down the hall to where the shoot was taking place, I saw a gallery of previous jobs the firm had done lining the walls. The subjects were varied and diverse, anything from family portraits, to landscapes, to simple head shots, to scenes like the one I was going to be part of. There were two recurrent faces in the staged scenes, a hulking punk, with cold blue eyes and a sneering smirk that made me want to punch him right in the nose, and a wicked looking girl, with dark long hair, big dangerous eyes, who always seemed to be clutching a knife of some kind in every picture.

"We're here!" Portia cried with an exaggerated hand gesture followed by a curtsy.

"Finally!" Exclaimed a guy dressed in ripped up jeans and a t-shirt with a fish bone caricature on, throwing his hands in the air.

"Lay off Finn! It's not like they would just go in the street and pick up the first bum they found in a park bench!" Said another guy, tuning an old school Gibson LesPaul guitar in the far right corner.

My eyes widened and I stumbled on my feet a little, because that's exactly what happened. I turned my face to Portia and Cressida anxiously, but the women had veneers of stone for faces, neither of them seemed perturbed or nervous about the offhanded comment about my origins, so I schooled my features into a more passive expression, to help keep the illusion as best as I could.

"Whatever. Lets get this show on the road already. Some of us have dinner plans with our pregnant spouses tonight!" The guy named Finn groused reaching for a microphone stand.

Finn was obviously the lead singer.

He started talking again, while messing with the mic, "Hey, why does the new roadie look like a lumberjack? Can he wear a different shirt or something? I don't really think a lumberjack matches the concept we're going for,"

I lift up my eyes to find his green ones trained on me, but then something zoomed across the air, followed by a dull thud, and Finn felled on his knees, cradling the back of his head and cursing like a sailor.

"Goddamnit Johanna!" He screamed turning around, holding a black combat boot gingerly in his hand, pointing it accusatorially at a girl on the back I hadn't spot at first. "What was that for, you psycho?"

The guitarist chuckled under his breath, "Dude, our grandpa was a lumberjack. Jo here has been wielding axes ever since she could toddle. I'm surprised she didn't throw a hatchet at you,"

"Shut up, Blight! Don't give that moron any explanations. He knows!" She hissed angrily, narrowing her wide-set brown eyes at the guitarist, "Eye-Candy here can be a goddamned lumberjack and it'll be ten times better than that stupid idea of yours, to wear fishnets instead of clothes," she rolled her eyes, "Who wants to see either of you naked, anyway!" She hopped down from the huge guitar amp she was perched on and slowly made her way towards Finn.

Before she reached him, he dropped her boot at her feet, turning his back on her, "I'll have you know, that most our fans would pay a pretty penny to see some skin showing," Finn snarked back.

"Oh, Peh-leaseeee..." Johanna started, but a smooth, calm voice interrupted whatever else followed.

"May I suggest our replacement model strips his shirt? We can have him tie it at the waist by the sleeves," a man dressed in black head to toe and close cropped dark hair strolled into the room. His piercing green eyes roved over everyone's face, finally landing on my own eyes, a questioning eyebrow lifted, I guess expecting my agreement.

I nervously looked at Cressida for guidance, but she was busy checking her equipment. Luckily, Portia swooped in to make introductions and lessened the awkwardness.

"Peeta, hun, this is Cinna. He's a genius. You can trust him," she winked and smiled at me, before turning to Cinna. "Cinna, this is Peeta! He's agreed to substitute for Cato today. He's a little nervous, it's his first modeling gig," she gave another wink and sauntered off to help Cressida.

Cinna's green eyes studied me for a moment before extending his hand for me to shake, "Welcome aboard, Peeta. I hope it's smooth sailing from here on out," he said releasing my hand, "I'll try to make it as easy and enjoyable as I can, but this group has already proven to be a bit of a nuisance." He smiled wryly and I finally relaxed a little.

"Alright everyone! Places!" Cressida's shouting instructions startled me, making me jump.

Cinna laughed shaking his head, patting me on the back. "Come on then, let's get to work. Will you be alright disrobing your shirt? Any tattoos or scars I need to be aware off? We will most likely cosmetically alter little details before printing, but I like to be aware of anything before hand, so we can work around it as much as we can, to avoid too many unnecessary enhancements." He said in his soft spoken tone.

"Um, no tattoos. I do have a few burn scars on the left side of my body," I trailed off subconsciously, already unbuttoning the plead shirt Portia had just outfitted me with, she was right, Cato's costumes fit me without any alterations.

"Okay," Cinna said bringing me back to the present. He tilted his head when my shirt is completely off and my skin imperfections exposed to his scrutiny. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, his face had a pensive quality to it, when he finally lifted his eyes to me, I notice a small line of gold eyeliner his only allowance in his otherwise, simple ensemble. It suited him. If I was into dudes, I'd say it was attractive.

"Those won't be a problem at all," he finally affirmed. "We will just wrap a couple of cables around you arms and shoulders to cover them, we can also have you carry the biggest props on that side. Everything else looks fine," with that, he walked away to give Portia instructions to direct me.

"Alright Eye-Candy," Jo's voice is jarring in my bubble of peace, nevertheless I turned to face her, "That meathead Cato had it coming. I suppose you deserve a warning. I don't give a fuck if you and your buddy think any chick is game in your modeling world, let make this clear, you touch me, you lose your hand, got it?" She poked her bony finger on my pectoral muscles quite aggressively, her eyes never flickered from mine.

I held her gaze. Then took her hand until I had her in an old wrestling lock, with her arm twisted back, flushed against her back, she ended up facing away from me, and then I nudged her away from my personal space, releasing her arm.

"I don't take kindly to people who make assumptions about me, without taking the time to know me," I said in the hardest voice I can muster. "I understand your space was invaded and disrespected, and I'm sorry about that, but I've never met Cato. He's not my buddy, and I wouldn't do to anyone, whatever he did to you. Now, don't lead me to believe you're a bigger jerk than Cato is, by making his same mistake,"

Her band mates had started to approach us in her defense; she was rubbing her wrist, watching me with murderous eyes. But just when Blight placed a hand on her shoulder, she threw it off, stomping away. Five steps further, she stopped, and kicked a bundle of what looked like curtains, with the tip of her boots, until a disoriented, startled looking guy, fought his way out of the tangle of fabrics.

"Come on Woof! You can sleep off the weed when you're dead, let's finish this shitty photo shoot so I can go home and drink this day away!" She screamed at the guy.

"Sorry about that," Finn said trying to get my attention on him. "Jo just broke up with her latest man toy, and she ain't very happy."

"Finnick, I swear to god, you keep blaming my sister for all the shit today, and you'll have to start auditioning for lead singer of another band. Jo doesn't need this..."

"Jo is out of control, Blight! And if you want to make threats, I suggest you have a back off plan, 'cause you know as well as I, that without me singing, your only fans will be that creep Cray, and those two Morphlings from D6."

I was seriously second guessing my involvement in that mess, when soft spoken Cinna approached, and broke the tension. He finally got everyone set up in the position, and the shoot, mercifully continued quietly. Except for a forced time out, we had to take thanks to the bassist, Woof, puking all over the floor, the gig went on without a hitch.

I spent the entire session shirtless, and moving props around the background, while the band posed with their instruments. They loosened up at the end, when Cinna told them it was a free shoot. They could whatever they wanted to do. It seemed like they finally started having fun with shoot. I was still lobbing stuff around, but it hardly bothered me.

When everything was done. Finnick packed up his ornate mic stand, a couple cables, and the mic itself. Then he was gone, claiming he was late for dinner with his wife. Then Woof meandered around, bagging his base guitar, and was gone as well without saying anything. The siblings had more to pack, seeing as Johanna had her whole drum set there.

Blight had already put his guitar away and then, he started helping his sister disassemble her drums. They started laying the hardware piece by piece on the floor; it seemed like a tedious job, but I had nothing else to do, so I decided to help them out.

I took the left side cymbals, and sat them on the floor next to the hi-hat, then I started taking apart the stand, putting the pieces in the ever growing pile of hardware in the middle. Then I moved on to one of the Toms, that's when Jo made a snarky remark, of how she didn't need help, and shrugged, saying I didn't mind, trying to give her a smile.

She simply narrowed her eyes at me, "Why are you being nice? We don't like each other!" She spat.

"Jo, he's just helping. The more hands helping the sooner we can get out of here," said Blight tiredly.

I speak above Blight. "I don't know you. How can I like or dislike you?" I told her twisting back the hanging tom's stand. "I don't like holding grudges. It's stupid and draining." I said putting the tubing down on the pile.

"Fine. Suit yourself."

"Peeta!" Portia called me away.

Before following Portia, I turned to the siblings.

"Thank you man," said Blight with a wave, Johanna didn't say anything, just stared at me skittishly.

"No problem. See you around."

I trailed after Portia until we came to a set of doors, she knocked, and pushed in without waiting for an answer. Cinna sat at a desk, framed by the biggest potted plants I've ever seen. The office was decorated in slick, clean lines, with straight line dark wood furniture. It was warm and modern at the same time. A series of portraits of a little girl that reminded me of a bird in flight decorated the walls. She resembles Cinna, but I would never guessed if she was related to him or not.

"Ah, Peeta! Please come in. Sit!" He invited me from his perch.

Portia brought a bottle of water, and a snack bar for me, and then sat on the corner of the desk. She smiled brightly.

"So, our boss, Mr. Heavensbee approved an emergency sum of a thousand dollars for your work today." Cinna stared.

"A thousand?" I chocked up on my water.

"I know. It's barely a percentage of what we would've paid Cato for the shoot, but I hope you understand, we wouldn't be able to pay more than that." He looked apologetic, chagrin even.

"No! It's... It's f-fine! A thousand? I was just hoping I got enough money to buy flowers to this friend of mine, and maybe have some left to treat her to dinner, but... a thousand is great!" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Alright! One thousand dollars it is," said Cinna removing a leather bound book from inside his mahogany desk. He opened the book, and page after page of neatly stacks of checks made for the inside. "Please spell your name out to me, then I'll write you a check,"

"Um... Uh..." I hesitated, fiddling with my fingers.

"Something the matter?" Cinna asked looking me in the eye, pen at the ready.

"Well, it's just that, I... I really don't have a bank account. I haven't hold a job in a while. I don't even have a hom..."

Cinna rose a hand to stop me. "Peeta, I'll be happy to give you cash. You don't have to tell me anything that makes you uncomfortable, but I have to say this," Cinna looked me right in the eyes, his eyeliner making sparks of gold pop in his scrutinizing green eyes. Soft spoken as he is, he can be very commanding when he wants to, "I've been looking to dispense with Cato's services for quite some time, this would be a very appropriate opportunity to do so, which will leave me with an empty male model slot. I would like to offer you more substitute gigs, until you find a more stable job. The pay will be continued to be about a thousand dollars a gig. Will you be interested in this arrangement?"

"Yes! Please!"

There's nothing to ponder. I'll take this occasional jobs. I'll make money, and I'll fill Katniss' apartment with flowers every day, to show her how wonderful she is!


End file.
